“One of them can go over and notify Vreeland’s wife, and so, the whole thing rests safely in our hands.”
“Helms and Mulholland?” questioned Roundsman Daly.
“Let them be safely locked up in Ludlow Street Jail, separately. The poor letter-carrier will soon confess, and he can be pardoned. He has only been a tool. Helms can be allowed to leave the country. He will never talk!
“And to-night, I will face Justine with Martha Wilmot, and then have her whole confession.”
“That scoundrel, Doctor Alberg?” moodily demanded Daly, as he moved to the door.
“He will never be heard of after the news of Vreeland’s suicide is published. Let him slink away; that will be the easiest way to get rid of him.”
When Daly had departed, Mrs. Willoughby clasped both Conyers’ hands in her trembling palms. The grateful light in her eyes was shadowed with tears.
“You would save me, Hugh?” she faltered.
“All trouble, all annoyance, all sorrow,” said the journalist, as he rose. “I must be busy now. See no one. Speak to no one, and above all never tell Endicott nor Alynton nor any single living soul the baseness of the man who lies dead down there.”
“You are my saviour,” she murmured; “I will obey; I have only one matter to close up with Senator Alynton, and then, I am free,” she said with downcast eyes.